A Ü T O/M Ö T O R

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vyle. moves fast, muscle memory dressing him.
The BAPE sweatshirt slides over his shoulders,
the Gucci mask sunglasses shield his eyes,
the Leaders 1354 shirt and hat lock him into place,
and the Jordan 1's lace up like armor.
It's the uniform, the ritual, the way you prepare for a world that moves too fast to keep up with.
But none of it feels real—neither the fabric nor the mirror reflection catching him in passing.
Only the malaise he can't shake on the way to the garage—that's real.
The message, the urgency, the unspoken finality wrapped up in "you should come see her soon."

Out the door.
Into the hallway.
Into the elevator—a metal box moving slower than a clock in detention,
slower than the last minutes of a class where the teacher won't let up,
slower than time itself when time is the only thing that matters.
The fluorescent hum presses against his skull.
He wills the doors to open faster,
for the machine to understand that the world outside is breaking apart.

He keeps his face steady, hoping none of the security guards, the doormen, or the maintenance guys see the fracture in him—
the way his breath comes uneven, the way his body moves as if both fleeing and being pulled back.
These are the same men who watched his mother bring him into this building every day since he was born,
who nodded at him in the lobby,
who probably still saw him as the kid tagging along at her side.
He doesn't have the time, the words, or the patience for any of them to stop him now.

The elevator spits him out.
He's moving again.
The 1996 Toyota Camry waits like a relic of his mother—a piece of her still anchored in the present.
He grips the wheel before he even starts the ignition, just for a second, just to ground himself.
Then he's off, the streets of Chicago streaking past,
the urgency mounting,
the hope—thin, but still there—that he can make it in time.